


Genesis

by DaftDays



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaftDays/pseuds/DaftDays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Dominick Cobb is that he doesn’t exist.</p><p>Eames created him from scratch, for Arthur to dream to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> About time I got something posted. I have over 100k words worth of a/e fics on my computer and I can't get around to edit them. Let's hope posting this will help me get my drive back.

* * *

  _' "Cobb said you'd be back. "_  
 _"I tried not to come, but..."_  
 _"But there's nothing quite like it. "_  
 _"It's just... pure creation. " '_

* * *

 

Eames is waiting for Arthur at the baggage claim.

In theory, they shouldn't be seen together right after a job. Yet there he is.

They should scatter, go about their business, drop all contact for at least a couple of weeks, months preferably. Until they could be sure the inception has gone through, until they know for sure they haven't been connected to the job. That no-one knows of the job.

They shouldn't, most definitely, be meeting up at the baggage claim right after a dubiously succesfull inception, with only Eames there to watch the final moments go down in the third level. Eames, who Arthur trusts, trusts enough to let Eames handle a job like that, enough to respect him and let him in on things.

Well, that was Eames used to think. Now, he's not so sure.

Arthur carries his bag like it weighs nothing. Eames knows that likely _is_ the case, as they hardly need to bring along anything. They can always dream up something new.

He waits for Arthur to come to him, like Arthur expects Eames to tag along, like a lost little puppy.

Eames does, but not because he's lost. Or maybe he is, just a little, but it doesn't matter right then. He's angry, and that's the first and foremost thing. He's angry, because Arthur damn near screwed everything up for them, was way too close to getting them all lost in limbo.

This isn’t what he’d signed up for.

Neither of them says anything for a long while. Eames steals one single look at Arthur, almost scowls at him, a quick glance when he thinks Arthur isn't looking. He's right, of course. Arthur's looking straight ahead, all calm and composed, cool like none of the inception shit has ever happened.

Eames kind of wants to punch him.

He doesn't. Instead, he breaks the silence.

"Lovely to see we all still have our wits about us", is what he says, a humourless smile on his lips, friendly bite to his words. He knows Arthur can tell he's seething nevertheless.

Arthur humours him with a look, one single look. He isn't smiling; he is not _anything_ really, save for the vaguely satisfied glint in his eyes, something sharp and professional.

"Yes, Mr. Eames, it is", he agrees, acts as if what Eames is offering a conversation starter and not a very sweetly concealed complaint, an angry remark.

It's infuriating. But then, Eames never expects anything else from Arthur.

Unless the does, and that's what's making him so angry.

"We nearly got lost in limbo", he says next, his voice still calm, only a touch darker.

He thinks he maybe sees Arthur flinch, ever so slightly, possibly.

"But we didn't", is the predictable reply.

They keep walking in silence until they reach the door. It's LA outside, a shining sun, weather too warm to Eames' current liking. He misses London acutely; the real London, with grey skies and unpredictable weather, the smell of life all around him, his apartment hidden deep within the city. He has grown weary of the Kenyan sun already and he just wants to go. And if Arthur is going to keep telling him no, he's not sure of what he's going to do.

Outside, Arthur stops.

"One week, Eames", he says, looks Eames straight in the eye, his gaze heavy with something Eames can't quite place.

Maybe, he thinks, Arthur is tired. But he’s not the only one. Eames can't bring himself to feel sympathetic.

"One week. By then, I can be sure he's safely gone home."

The assumption that there even is a home to go to, it goes unsaid.

"Fine", Eames finally snaps, weary and tired and dangerously close to regretting this job altogether. But it is just an ‘almost’, because the money is stellar, and with the recipe for inception he's going to make enough money to retire and move to the goddamn Moon if he wants to.

"I'll wait one week. Seven days exactly, from this moment." He glances at his watch, notes the time. Math may not be his strongest suit, but he knows how to be precise. He is, after all, a forger.

"Very well", says Arthur, and then he is gone.

Eames is left feeling more tired than he has in a long time, still angry, almost betrayed. He climbs into a taxi and lets it take him to the priciest hotel this goddamn city can offer, and kills time the best he can.

At exactly the same time, seven days later, he takes a gun and shoots himself in the head. There is nobody left to find the stain the wall made by his brain as they explode out of the back of his skull.

When Eames wakes up, he wavers, and then he is Dom Cobb.

Dominick fucking Cobb, complete with that ridiculous 'k' at the end of the name.

Arthur had once asked him why he put the letter there, why not go with the obvious, the usual.

Eames had shrugged and started to talk about his wife, the lovely Mallorie, their children.

Because the thing is, he hadn't put the letter there. It had already been in the passport.

**

The thing about Dominick Cobb is that he doesn't exist.

He never did, at least outside of Arthur's mind, of all their dreams. Eames is sort of grateful for that but then, it doesn't make him feel any better that it was actually Arthur's subconscious that put them through such a ridiculous job.

Eames sheds his skin faster than Arthur wakes up, doesn't exactly wait for Yusuf to come to either. Why he automatically slips into a forgery of Cobb, he doesn't care to think about.

As far as he knows, neither Ariadne nor Saito are real. A shame, because he'd liked both, but he doesn't really care all that much. Saito in particular; Eames could have used his resources in the waking world.

"I'm going to blow this place up", he says the moment Arthur has his eyes open. They look a little bleary, search for something and land on Eames.

Arthur nods, and Eames doesn't wait. He only has to think and there's a grenade in his hand, a tiny little thing that makes a huge explosion as he tosses it to the floor and blows up the entire warehouse. Not that the damn thing had all that much walls left anyway.

This time, it's Arthur who wakes up first. He's already standing up, gathering the lines of the pasiv into the case by the times Eames makes it to sitting.

"Well done, Mr. Eames", he says, and sounds so bland about it Eames thinks they could as well have failed.

"You truly lived up to your reputation, as did your friend. Thank you. I'll have your payment wired to your preferred account by Monday."

It's Saturday, and Eames can't really tell why he's getting stuck on that tiny detail, but the knowledge keeps bouncing about in his head, floating in his brain like a detached part. Maybe he's finally gone off the deep end, because thinking about Saturday gets him up, fresh anger burning up his blood, and he makes it over to Arthur with three large strides.

Arthur hasn't expected it, and he at least has enough feeling left in him to look surprised when Eames grabs him by the front of his shirt and nearly shakes him.

”You said there would be no risks”, he growls, feeling disappointed in both himself and Arthur, betrayed and reasonably so. He’d trusted Arthur in this. And it doesn’t help that he’s tired and hungry and stiff, having dreamt for over ten hours straight, his body an aching mess.

Arthur stares back at him like he feels none of it, already prepared to fend Eames off if he must, for now just waiting, watching. There’s not much left of the man who’d told Eames to go to sleep in the hotel room, who’d joked with him in the warehouse, traded secret looks and jabs and quiet words with. All those months spend together had been in a dream after all, and those people in the dream, they weren’t real. It hadn’t been reality.

In here, he doesn’t know Arthur at all.

“You’re overreacting”, Arthur tells him, wraps long fingers around Eames’ wrists. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t push, just takes precaution.

“I’m not”, Eames gives right back, his voice low and rough. He’s aware of Yusuf being awake in the room, in the small studio Arthur had rented for the job, nothing but three mattresses in the middle of the room. Yusuf’s moving around, gathering his things, packing up. The job is done, they have no reason to stay.

“I _trusted_ you, Arthur.”

Before this job, he never would have said those words to Arthur. Now, he knows he won’t be saying them ever again. There will be no more chances.

Maybe he imagines it, blames it on wishful thinking, but Eames thinks he sees a flash of something in Arthur’s dark eyes, something that could be hurt or could be regret or could even be both, like something has been broken and Arthur doesn’t know how to fix it.

The thing is, Eames doesn’t want him to fix it. He doesn’t give second chances to people who betray him.

Arthur doesn’t say anything cliché like ‘You can still trust me’, or, ‘I never meant you any harm’. He knows the words won’t help, Eames thinks, and so he waits, takes three breaths, then lets go and steps back. Arthur holds onto his wrists still, even as their hands fall, and Eames knows Yusuf is looking away for a reason.

He looks at Arthur, at their hands, and Arthur drops his wrist like Eames’ skin burns him. For a moment he looks young, so unbearably young, his hair a mess from the sleep, rebellious curls at the nape of his neck.

In the dream, Eames might have reached out to touch them.

Now, he only wants to go.

The anger is still there, bubbling underneath his skin, hot and stinging in his chest. He smooths it out of his face, looks at Arthur like he doesn’t care. He is a forger, and he knows how to fake calm when he has to. Eames plays it out perfectly as he tugs at his collar, fixes his sleeve down to cover the wrist where the needle had been just a little while ago.

“Well then”, he says, his tone pure finality, voice even.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Arthur. Don’t ever call me again.” Eames doesn’t shake Arthur’s hand even if he feels like he maybe should, to make it truly the end.

Arthur doesn’t try to stop him as he picks up his things, heads out of the door. He shares a cab with Yusuf, doesn’t say a word as they split up at the airport.

**

The thing about Dominick Cobb is that he doesn’t exist. Eames created him from scratch, a base for Arthur to build on. Dom Cobb was their project, their experiment, something fascinating and enthralling. In a sense, Eames could say Dom Cobb had been their baby, but that sounds just wrong and weird, and he doesn’t want to share a child with Arthur anyway.

Dom Cobb had been a project. He’d first existed only as an idea, a vague question in Arthur’s mind. He had called Eames one night, when Eames had been hiding from a few angry Russians in a bungalow somewhere along the Australian coast. Eames had been tired and bored and the way Arthur spoke about him, about this idea, he had been sold.

He had worked with Arthur twice before. Both had been routine extractions, but both times the young man in suits of various degrees of quality had managed to impress him. Eames had more experience, more when it came to routines, to understanding dreams. Eames had imagination and ideas and the will to test them out. Arthur had research and theories that often had nothing to do with the job at hand. He wasn’t the brilliant IT guy every man in the business wanted to work with, and he wasn’t the go-to guy when you needed to flesh out a detailed plan for a job that should, by all means, be way too difficult to pull off. He was a jack of many trades and a master of none. But every now and then, things came out of him, things no-one else had thought out.

Dom Cobb had been one of those.

Eames remembers flying out of Australia the next day, Russians be damned. They had met up in Johannesburg, flown together to Cairo from there. The whole flight, Arthur had been talking. And Eames… Well, Eames had been smitten.

A self-sufficient projection, Arthur had said.

So you want to play God? Eames had asked, loosely resting against his wildly uncomfortable plane seat. There had been no point in letting Arthur see exactly how giddy the idea alone had made him.

Arthur had scoffed, then paused, and finally he’d nodded.

Yes, he had agreed, and then he had smiled at Eames. It had been a tight-lipped smile, forcibly contained, something sharp and stolen and dangerous in the curve of his lips.

We will create a new living being, for the dream, for multiple dreams. Make ourselves believe he is real. Watch it grow and take shape. That’s how Arthur had said it. Eames had never seen him look so excited.

A breakthrough, Eames had realized later. That’s what Arthur had wanted. To discover something by himself, to be the first and the best at something. He could understand that desire. But even more than that, he had fallen a little bit in love with Arthur’s mind for coming up with it.

They had debated trying it out on a subject who wasn’t aware of the experiment, and had eventually decided against it. If it didn’t take with Arthur, then they would try someone else.

As it would turn out, it had taken all too well.

At first, it had been Eames. He had spent hours upon hours in a dream, building up the man he was supposed to be. In the meantime, Arthur had been out, looking for a chemist, someone to build them a compound to make Arthur forget he was dreaming. It was dangerous, but they always looked for an exit. Arthur had found his man, brought with him two vials and a chemical formula.

The first one would make him forget, the second one would make him remember. A pretty neat deal, as far as Eames had been concerned.

He had built Dominick Cobb from the faces of thousands of people. Little details from here and there, adjusting and molding until he was satisfied. Then he had learned an accent, a walk, a strange little squint he stole from his late grandfather, a ring around his finger. He had built himself a family, a wife, two children, a career in dream business, all legal.

And when he had been done, they had taken Arthur under.

It had been a café in Cairo, one they had been going to time and time again. Familiar, simple, built from memory almost directly. Eames had carried the vial of the second drug in his pocket, had known the formula inside out, had been sure it would work. He had met Arthur at the café, asked to join him for a cup of coffee, introduced himself as Dominick Cobb, a researcher.

They had talked for hours upon hours. It hadn’t been all at once, their dreams relatively short and repetitive, and then finally they had taken Arthur down to the second level.

Eames had been Eames again, the setting the same. Arthur still hadn’t known they were dreaming, and Eames had cheered inwardly when Arthur introduced him to Dr. Dominick Cobb, with a weird ‘k’ in the end. Cobb had wheat blond hair and blue eyes and a touch of stubble, and a reminiscent of youthful swagger in his gestures when he got into it, and Eames had watched him squint at Arthur and he almost hadn’t been able to believe they had actually done this.

That night, after they had woken up, they had celebrated.

Well, at least Eames had. He had asked Arthur to go out with him, just for a couple of drinks and maybe some wingmanship. Arthur had declined politely and got back to his laptop, wrote emails and reports and did whatever it had been that he did to celebrate. Eames shrugged and walked to the door, a tan jacket on his arm, Arthur’s words loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.

“That chemist we got the compounds from. Think you could bring him in?” Despite the fact that Arthur had originally been the one to find him, Yusuf had already been much closer to Eames those days.

Eames had saluted him and dialed Yusuf’s number when he’d gotten sufficiently drunk, which wasn’t really saying much at all. Not like he could be pissed on a job, after all.

Yusuf had flown in next week. Eames hadn’t known what Arthur needed him for, but at the time he hadn’t cared. He had been too drunk on success, the money Arthur had promised him upon completing his experiments. With a paycheck like that, he could focus on his own research for a while, keep looking into forgery and not worry about income for a bit. Like, for a year.

They had gone under again, together. They had met Dom on the first level, his presence tangible and real to the point none of them had expected. He had greeted Arthur like a friend, Eames as well, had looked at Yusuf as if there had been something familiar in him but he hadn’t known what it was. They had spent the day with Cobb, let him talk about his research in dreamshare, the layers of dreams within dreams, something Eames had known Arthur had worked on at a time. He had talked about his lovely wife, their lovely children, his life that was simply good.

He had been a lovely man, at first.

At the end of their evening, he’d pulled Eames aside, Dom drunk on the dream champagne and Eames faking it admirably.

“If I wasn’t quite so married”, he’d said, peering at Eames, the squint a perfect copy of Eames’ grandfather, “I would suggest we fuck.”

Eames, thrown off by the admission, had only chuckled.

“Then again, Mal might not even mind so much as long as we let her watch”, Cobb had added.

Eames had looked at Arthur at that, had caught his eyes and the mildly uncomfortable look on his current boss’ face, as if Arthur just might have had an idea of what they were talking about.

Cobb was, after all, a projection of Arthur’s subconscious.

Eames had had every intention to bring it up later, but the next day, they had taken it deeper.

On the second level, Arthur had only wanted to observe. And for a while, he had been satisfied with that. He’d watched Cobb at home, had went to visit his house, his wife, their children. They were all so perfect it had been almost painful, like a masterpiece painting in a bad neighborhood gallery, something pure in the middle of the dreamscape. Arthur had built them cities, all of them slightly incomplete but perfect enough for Cobb, and Eames had watched them go on jobs together, extracting from projections and only truly going deeper into Arthur’s mind.

They had always come up, and he hadn’t thought much of it, at the time.

Then Mal had happened.

One day, they had slipped into a dream, only to find Dom in a place in Paris, the projection a wreck. Eames and Yusuf had slipped away, had let Arthur to handle all of it.

Mal had died. Dom’s lovely, projected wife who had never truly existed.

It had been the first time Eames had truly questioned what they had been doing. If it had been right, if it had been smart. Maybe they shouldn’t have tried, after all.

Yet they had kept going back. Arthur had wanted to see it through, to see how far they could take the experiment, how strong was the sense of self the projection possessed. And truly, Cobb had been magnificent. There had been moments when Eames had almost forgotten Cobb wasn’t real. Because he had been perfect.

Cobb had told Arthur he couldn’t build anymore. Arthur hadn’t replied. Eames had known why.

Cobb had never been able to build. He had never been real. He just didn’t know it.

In the end, they had stayed in the dream for months. They had staged Cobol, had brought in Saito.

Sometimes, Eames still wonders where Saito and Ariadne had come from. At the time, it had all seemed like Cobb had been creating his own world within Arthur’s dreams.

Arthur had been overjoyed. He’d cultivated a new persona, something akin to Cobb’s sidekick, his hired muscle, good with research and guns, complete with a piss poor imagination, while Eames had stayed in Mombasa, had waited for Arthur to need him.

Arthur had phoned him before Cobb had.

Inception, he had said. They were going to attempt inception.

Eames had thought it brilliant and fucked up and dangerous, and he’d loved the idea. Yusuf had agreed.

Arthur had promised them they would be safe. That at the first sign of trouble, they would run. They could shoot themselves awake and regardless of the outcome, the experiment would be over.

Only they hadn’t been safe. The overly strong sedatives in the dream, Yusuf’s shifting allegiances as he had been slowly losing a grip of who had been real and who hadn’t. Eames’ doubts of the job, quiet conversations in the shadows and corners with Arthur, Arthur’s hand a reassuring weight on his arm.

They had spent a lot of time together, in those few months. Enough that Eames had learned little things about Arthur; the type of apartments he liked, the way he liked to dress, the reason why he always wore his hair pulled back, even in the dream. He’d watched a show on TV that made no sense, then watched through two seasons of Arthur’s favorite documentaries, something his subconscious remembered perfectly and could recreate for them. He’d eaten in countless dream restaurants and paid attention at every meal, had learned Arthur’s likes and dislikes. He’d kissed Arthur in an ally by the back door of a Nepalese cafe, felt the soft curls at Arthur’s neck against his fingers. Arthur had tasted like spice and life and reality and Eames had clung to him, felt Arthur clinging to him much the same. After that, there had been tension and teasing, looks and touches and quiet longing as they had planned the Fischer job. Arthur had let Eames take the lead, satisfied with the process, and Eames knew it hadn’t been just because they had been playing roles; it had happened because Arthur had trusted him to make the most of it.

Then had come the sedatives and the multiple layers, Saito getting shot. Arthur had insisted they stayed, had explained the threat of limbo was real, and Eames had taken his anger out on Cobb.

After all, Cobb had been Arthur.

He'd went along then, still angry but reasonable enough to know that anger wouldn't have gotten him anywhere. The whole job had been a wreck, the end of it a chaos. As Eames had watched, Ariadne had slipped into the dream that would take her to limbo, two projections chasing a third in a world that wasn't real. Eames had wondered, often even, of what had been down there. Had the limbo truly existed, had there been a place built by a projection of Arthur's mind, on its own? He wouldn't have felt the slightest bit guilty leaving all them down in the dream then.

Yet it had worked. It had all taken, Cobb had dragged Saito out of limbo with him, both of them walking like men who had seen too much, eyes old and weary as they had stepped out of the plane. Arthur had been full of barely contained excitement and Eames... Eames had felt betrayed. Betrayed, and proud, because they had done it, they had truly done it. They had risked everything, and learned to do inception.

Arthur's experiment, it had been a success. And as Eames sits in a plane the night after they woke up, he hopes he'll never have to see Arthur again.

**

Every now and then, Eames hears of Arthur. It's all rumors, whispers of theories and success and a slightly deranged mind. He ignores them, doesn't get offers for jobs with Arthur in the party, works the same he always has. He never uses Dominick Cobb as a forgery again, strays away from people who look like him. He brings people to his bed, kisses them like he means it, only to roll out of bed in the morning to never see them again. He thinks of Arthur sometimes, only when he hasn't heard of him in a while, thinks of the soft pale skin and the lean body, how Arthur had felt under his touch, his muscles tensing and flexing underneath Eames' warm hand. The anger is already gone, has been for a while, replaced with a simple ache of distrust. Those nights, he goes to bed alone and wishes he never would have introduced Arthur to Dom Cobb.

Then, a year after their experiment, he starts to hear new rumours. They're still about Arthur, but they tell of a new partner he has, someone mysterious no-one has yet to see. They call him Cobb, and that's all they ever know. Eames taps into his sources, none of which can give him anything. Then a new job comes up, and Eames throws himself into it, works through his first real inception, celebrates the success and forgets about Dom Cobb once again.

It's two years after Cobb that Arthur calls Eames the first time.

Eames takes the call because he doesn't recognize the number. He doesn't say a word, waits for the caller to fill the silence.

A voice he knows all too well says; "Hello, Mr. Eames."

Eames ends the call without as much as a hello.

Arthur calls again after, three times in a row. Eames doesn't pick up. He stares at the phone vibrating on the table and feels spiteful and childish and so good. He'd told Arthur to not call him again, and he had meant it. He doesn't work with people who lie to him, who intentionally put their team in danger.

It takes Arthur two weeks to try again. He starts to say something, skips the greeting this time, but Eames doesn't listen. He grits out a few words, tells Arthur to stop calling, that he isn't interested and won't work with him.

The calls stop there. Eames sighs in relief, hopes to get back to his normal schedule. It's a void between two jobs, a moment when he has nowhere to be, nothing specific to do, and he ends up wandering the streets despite the biting winds of northern winter.

It's there, in the old town of Stockholm, when he walks into Arthur.

It's mostly shock that keeps him from turning around and walking away.

Arthur stands in front of him, mildly surprised, the lower half of his face hidden underneath a thick navy scarf. His nose is red, eyes a squint, a hat the color of his scarf hiding most of his dark hair. He has hands in his pockets, shoulders up, looks out of place in the Scandinavian winter.

People walk past them, chatter in the melodic language that has always sounded like singing to Eames, and he stares at Arthur, at the dark circles under his eyes, the tired look as he stares right back at Eames.

He makes a move to turn when Arthur speaks up.

"I need your help."

It's only four words, but they stop Eames, seal his shoes to the pavement. He looks at Arthur again, the closed off look on his face, sees fear of rejection so clearly it almost pains him. He sighs then, and even if he knows Arthur doesn’t deserve it he nods to a cafe across the street.

"Let's go inside."

Inside, the lighting is warm and dim, all the surfaces made of wood, soft music floating around like feathers. Eames leads them to a table in the back, a booth that would fit four. They fill the seats with silence, shrug off their coats, the intention to stay overruling Eames' instincts to run. He asks for a tea and the kind of a coconut ball he's grown very fond of during his stay. Arthur has a cup of coffee in front of him, a croissant that somehow only looks sad on the small white plate. There's steam rising out of Arthur's coffee and Eames follows it, tracks the wisps up to Arthur's neck. His eyes trail higher, take in the slight downwards curve of Arthur's lips, the twitch when he notices Eames staring. Eames looks up then, into Arthur's eyes, just looks at him for a moment.

If Arthur had looked tired outside, he looks exhausted in here.

Eames doesn't say a word. He leaves it to Arthur, forces him to take care of the awkward part. The last time they had seen each other, Eames had been angry, had wanted to bury his fist in Arthur's face. Had wanted to hurt him to forget about how much he wanted to cradle Arthur in his arms and make him sleep, blessed dreamless sleep until the darkness disappeared from Arthur's eyes and the heavy lines carved his face were less.

This time, he can't make himself turn away. What he's good at is cutting and running, working towards the benefit of no-one but himself. But when Arthur asks him for help, he feels like there's no choice. Those few months in the dream take so many more to forget, and that time has yet to pass.

Arthur cradles the cup of coffee in his hands, the dark brown porcelain a stark contrast to his pale hands. He looks slimmer too, Eames notices, follows the curve of his neck and the slope of his shoulders, frowns at the way Arthur's sleeves are tucked over his wrists, halfway over his palms.

"I can't stop thinking about him", Arthur says. There's strain in his voice, a fight to sound normal. It's a losing battle.

For one strange moment, Eames doesn't understand who Arthur is talking about. His mind supplies him with images of partners, bosses, lovers, boyfriends, someone Arthur might have feelings for. A lovers' quarrel, perhaps, something unexpected and almost frightening, a sharp stab of jealousy in his gut.

Then, he looks at Arthur, takes in the dark eyes that radiate desperation, the exhaustion painting deep cuts on Arthur's face, and Eames relents. There's no love in Arthur’s eyes, unrequited or otherwise, and so Eames stays, slowly stirs his tea.

"I'm sorry to drag you into this." Arthur sounds steadier now, like he might mean the words.

Something about it makes Eames' chest feel tight.

Arthur clears his throat, looks at Eames. He still attempts business even if they both know this isn't it, this is far from their usual. They are both off the clock in a way that in itself is a miracle, a rarity neither of them knows how to handle. Before, they have always been working.

In reality, that is.

"But I'm afraid you're the only one who gets it. You, and maybe Yusuf."

Eames thinks he can understand why Arthur has ruled Yusuf out. He would have done so as well.

There's another stretch of quiet. Eames spends it by studying Arthur's hands, then staring at a spot over Arthur's shoulder, constantly aware of the few people moving around them. He pays attention to Arthur, his body language, the tension in his muscles and the way he holds himself as if he's afraid of something, prepared to run.

Eames waits for another minute, sips his tea. It's decent, for something out of a tea bag. The cup makes a soft sound as he sets it down, and he leans back, folds his fingers together, rests his hands over his belly. Calm, confident. He holds the cards, and he knows it. They both do.

"Go one."

Two words from him, and some of the tension seems to melt out of Arthur's body. His shoulders drop, a sigh so light it might be from Eames' imagination slides out of his lips. His eyes flutter shut, relief crossing his face in a way that's almost painful for Eames to see. It's a proof that Arthur was afraid he'd be turned away and Eames would never, never do that. To many people, yes, but not to Arthur.

It surprises even Eames himself, how strongly he feels about it.

No matter how angry he had been, no matter how many times after the dream he felt like he never wanted to see Arthur again. None of it is enough to wipe away the kind of companionship there had been when Dominick Cobb had been around.

"It's Cobb. I can't... He's still there, Eames. They all are. Cobb, Mal, James, Phillippa. And they won't go away."

Eames says nothing, can’t say anything. It's like someone has pulled a plug on Arthur's fears, words tumbling out of his mouth like water through a broken dam.

He tells Eames about Dominick Cobb, about the man they created together, the idea of a person they planted in Arthur's mind. And now, how just like inception, the idea has started to grow. How Cobb never left, how he still haunts Arthur's dreams. Arthur dreams, and in every dream there is Cobb, not a shade like Mal had been but real, tangible; the same Cobb he had been during the experiment. He's happier now, Arthur says, grieving Mal but at peace with it. He lives in their house, Arthur explains, and his eyes are wide, almost afraid, knowing that it is madness to talk about houses in his head.

"He's always there", Arthur says, clutching his cup like it's the only thing connecting him to reality anymore.

"Every time I go under, he always finds me. I can't work properly anymore, not without people asking questions. He tries to be helpful but I don't need him, and he doesn't realize it."

Eames is frowning now, his lips pressed together, tense and worried. He can see it building, a sum of so many accidents, the real issue that lurks behind Arthur's every word. He can see it in Arthur's eyes already, just waits for Arthur to spit it out.

"He's always there, and I can't stop going to him." Arthur sighs, drags in a deep breath, his eyes downcast.

"I'm not even sure if he isn't real anymore."

Eames has never seen Arthur the way he is now, exhausted to the bone and grasping at the straws of his sanity, eyes wild and steady at the same time. Eames leans forward, reaches for Arthur's hands. He peels one of them off the cup and Arthur doesn't resist, allows Eames to take his hand and pull back the sleeve covering his wrist.

Eames tilts the pale hand in his, doesn't flinch but it's a close thing when he sees the abused skin, veins that have gone into hiding. He strokes a thumb over the paper thin skin, looks up with nothing to say.

Arthur stares back at him and he smiles but only with his mouth, and even then it's barely there.

"I think I'm losing it, Eames."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, second chapter coming soon-ish I hope. Here's my new and shiny [tumblr](http://kickslikesleeptwitch.tumblr.com/).


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